


every phrase was like an epitaph

by jan



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/pseuds/jan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seiji lets himself be impractical, one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every phrase was like an epitaph

**Author's Note:**

> I think the Pixiv fandom has sold me on the idea of hopelessly one-sided Matoba/Natori (or at least, what Matoba thinks is hopelessly one-sided). I apologise for everything.

Late summer is an indulgent season, a last chance for complacency before autumn's restlessness. Even the evening air is warm. Seiji stretches his legs out before him, leans back, feels the cool roughness of grass under his hands. Before him, further down the slope, the river flows dark and silent and unhurried.

It's as good a time as any for things to end, he thinks. 

When he comes to the river, it's usually the solitude he appreciates. Tonight's an aberration. The path that runs along the top of the embankment is alive with families and couples and rowdy teenagers, all drifting in the same direction. From where he's seated on the bank, Seiji can make out the warm, distant glow of their destination: the colourful stalls of some summer festival.

He looks down the other end of the path instead. Figures emerge from the dusk, coalesce into yet more laughing, guilelessly happy passers-by. Seiji would rather be watching the river, but he scans their faces nonetheless, waiting.

And then -- at last -- there he is. He doesn't look happy, but when does he ever?

"Seiji."

"Shuuichi-san. You came, after all."

Shuuichi's still in a shirt and blazer, despite having graduated from high school months ago. He wears his youth better now than when they first met. Seiji's watched his progress, seen how he learned to weave his way through the social battlefield of exorcist meetings, teenage sullenness replaced by a veneer of charm.

Here, of course, there's none of that pretence. Seiji isn't someone he has to be polite with. Shuuichi takes in the scene: the bustling path, the yukata-clad teenagers, the lantern-lit stalls ahead. "Did you want to meet because of the _fireworks?_ " he says in disbelief.

Seiji has to laugh at his indignant expression. "I'm not a child."

Shuuichi looks unconvinced, but he steps off the path and heads down towards Seiji, and Seiji supposes he deserves a better explanation. "With the festival going on, no one will notice us. And it seemed wiser to be near these crowds, rather than somewhere more secluded... It'd be inconvenient for a youkai to happen by when you're practising, after all."

Shuuichi gives him a sidelong glance as he sits down. "Practising? What are you expecting me to do? Some of us aren't students any more, you know. And exorcism isn't a hobby."

A fine thing to say, given that he's pursuing some frivolous surface-world career. A waste of time, Seiji thinks. When it's finally his turn to shed his school uniform, he'll leave behind all other distractions from the exorcist world, too.

But of course, there are things he'll have to leave behind sooner.

The ceremony will be held in a matter of weeks. He can't call him 'Shuuichi-san' forever.

"I thought you'd like a chance to show what you've been working on. Surely it gets lonely, with no one to judge your skills."

Earlier in their acquaintance, Shuuichi would have bristled at those words, annoyance flaring instantly into anger. Now he just rolls his eyes. "I don't see why I should keep humouring you."

But he's still here, despite his reluctance and his complaints, so Seiji just hums a non-reply and waits. The moon's reflection wavers upon the river before them. A lone firefly makes its unsteady way along the bank. Up on the path, a group of children run by, their high voices raised in excitement.

Shuuichi sighs.

"There's this," he says grudgingly, drawing a string of paper dolls from his pocket. "Controlling individual ones is easy, even in a flock, but for some reason it takes more effort to wield them like this."

"Hmmm." Seiji leans in for a look. "You really have grown skilled, haven't you."

Shuuichi just scowls. Not that Seiji was expecting anything else. He watches as Shuuichi's murmurs coax the paper dolls to life, as he breathes spiritual power into them, crafting the same chain that binds him to the Natori name. Strange to think that Seiji's responsible for this, at least in part. Shuuichi might have come across it sooner or later, in those old books of his, but Seiji was the one who first mentioned the techniques, who reminded him of what the Natori clan had once achieved.

It's amusing, Seiji decides. That's the most convenient label for what he feels.

"Have you considered marking them in ink?" he offers, since he knows the unsolicited advice will irritate Shuuichi. "Providing a clearer focus for the power -- unorthodox, perhaps, but for someone of your ability..."

"I've already tried that," Shuuichi replies, not looking up. "It detracts from the paper's own form."

Practicality would dictate one of two different approaches, Seiji knows. Win him over completely, shape him into an ally, arm him in the knowledge that he'll eventually be fighting for you; or stop handing him weapons for your own defeat.

The clan elders have their own views. Some see the possibility of a coup for the Matoba clan, thrill at the idea of that uncooperative Natori house finally becoming theirs. Others think the bad blood runs too deep. The young Natori heir should be brought down before he can become a threat, they say, and it's clear whom they expect to strike the blow.

Seiji knows Shuuichi well enough, by now, to know that he will not join them. But he can come up with plenty of reasons not to take that second path. Some of them might even be true.

"Well?"

He looks up. Shuuichi's done with the paper dolls. The pale chain twines suspended around his outstretched wrists, fluttering in a non-existent breeze -- then snakes out, cuts a bright path through the evening darkness and curls around Seiji instead. There's the soft swish of paper against the sleeve of his shirt, the side of his face, as the shikigami tremble against him: their touch feather-light one moment, sharp enough to cut the next.

"Impressive," Seiji says. The advantage of always seeming insincere is being able to tell the truth with no one realising it.

"Hmph." The chain twists in the air, crumples back into itself, and Shuuichi returns it to his pocket. "There. You can't have asked me to come here just for that, and I'm certainly not going to ask to see your work. So what is it? If it's some new assignment, I've told you before -- I won't team up with you." 

"Quite the opposite." It's foolish, Seiji knows. A childish wish for a dramatic goodbye. But then, he's always had a weakness for the theatrical. "Let's stop this, Shuuichi-san."

There's a pause, as if Shuuichi doesn't know how to react, isn't sure what he's reacting to. "What?"

Seiji's still looking at Shuuichi's hands. The lizard ayakashi circles his left wrist, once, twice, before disappearing up his sleeve. "These meetings."

"You're the one who keeps bothering me," Shuuichi snaps, shoulders tensing. "Even meeting tonight--"

The ire is familiar, Seiji thinks. That's how he always acts when he can't understand what's going on. "Am I? Well, then, you don't have to worry. I won't trouble you again." He looks away from Shuuichi's now-trembling hands, watches the play of moonlight upon the river instead. The trick is to make sure that Shuuichi will no longer care, that all he will want to do is walk away from this -- the way Seiji's going to, the way he should have done a long time ago, if not for his curiosity and amusement and other motivations he would rather not examine too closely. "You should have known by now, surely, with all the studying you do. The famed Natori house, who opposed the Matoba clan when we united the eleven great exorcist families... Surely you didn't think we could play at being allies forever, Shuuichi-san."

"I don't-- You're saying we're _enemies?_ "

No. No, he wouldn't want to go that far. It... would not be a strategic move.

He turns back to Shuuichi, at last; tilts his head to the side, lets his smile curl into a mocking grin. "I'm saying that you are at best an irrelevance to us, and at worst a competitor."

Shuuichi stares back, expression halfway between anger and bewilderment. The silence stretches bowstring-taut between them. When the cheerful noise of the crowd drifts over, borne on a passing breeze, it might as well belong to another world.

"Do whatever you want," Shuuichi says at last, voice low. The grass rustles as he gets to his feet.

If only, Seiji thinks wryly. The Matoba clan gets what it wants, yes; its leader can want only what is good for the clan. He watches Shuuichi take a step away, then another. It's surprisingly difficult, so he looks back at the river instead, at the distant festival's lights dissolving in its dark waters.

"Shouldn't you be happy?" he murmurs, and isn't sure if he means for Shuuichi to hear. "You've never wanted this--"

It's the wrong thing to say. Shuuichi wheels around, closes the distance with a few angry strides, and then he's kneeling in the grass, hands on Seiji's shoulders, voice unsteady as he demands: "What are you trying to do, Seiji? What do you want? I--"

This close, Seiji can see straight through the light-glazed lenses of his spectacles. Without his carefully-learnt facade, Shuuichi's gaze is as transparent as it's always been, an open book still telling the same confused, bitter story.

Seiji breathes in, slowly. Decides to allow himself this final whim.

The shadow-lizard skitters down the line of Shuuichi's throat, slips across a collarbone and beneath his shirt just as the first burst of fireworks thunders across the sky, and Seiji leans in, secure in the knowledge that Shuuichi can't hear what he's saying as he does so.

Shuuichi's lips are soft, his mouth pliant with surprise, but Seiji keeps the kiss slow and gentle and nothing like what he truly wants, keeps his hands by his side when they ache to be elsewhere. It's practice, he thinks, when he finally pulls away; practice for a lifetime more of holding back.

He gets to his feet. Allows himself a final look at Shuuichi's dazed, unguarded expression.

Then leaves. Swiftly, before Shuuichi has the time to react, he's heading up the slope, striding through the grass and away from something he never should have had. The next time they meet, he will be the head of the Matoba clan. Matoba Seiji, who has little to say to the Natori heir, who is shielded by the distance that his new designation requires. And Shuuichi will -- predictably, reliably -- fail to understand. Shuuichi will be confused, will let his confusion sharpen into anger, corrode into hatred, and yes, yes, all that is as it should be. Let this be where it ends. Let it turn Shuuichi into the stranger he was always supposed to be, set him onto the same path which the Natori clan chose generations ago.

Seiji steps quickly off the top of the embankment, heads towards the anonymity of the crowd ahead. No one's watching. Why should they be? The fireworks are still unfurling overhead, burning themselves out in brief, bright flashes of light.

"Seiji!"

Shuuichi's voice rises in the night air, desperate and pleading. Seiji walks on. His steps, at least, don't falter. Perhaps Shuuichi's scrambling up the grassy slope, stumbling along the path, but it doesn't matter -- Seiji will leave him behind, will do so again and again, as many times as it takes. His breath is measured, even. He can feel it, the change in the air, summer's softness giving way to autumn's chill.

There's a future he needs to meet. There are things he can't keep any longer.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: every phrase was like an epitaph](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494073) by [lady_peony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony)




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